


Reflection

by Lillielle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillielle/pseuds/Lillielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: I don't own HP in the slightest.</p><p>Slightly AU. Written in second person. Harry's got a self-harm problem, and Snape finds out. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflection

You watch the cauldron in front of you bubble over, the near-perfect potion sloshing inside now turned to useless orange sludge. Behind you, Malfoy can't stop laughing, and you know, although you can't prove it, that he's the one behind this. Again.

"Detention!" Snape barks, and it's nothing new. Your shoulders slump in resignation as you clean up your workstation and pack away your things. Ron and Hermione are fighting again, and they unwittingly leave you behind, to make your way to Transfiguration without them. Once again, nothing new. Malfoy shoves past you with a smirk on his ferrety face, and you wish with all your heart you dared curse him as badly as you want to.

You don't, though. You can't, and you wonder yet again why the Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You're a coward and everyone knows it. The only one who may have thought otherwise was Sirius, and Sirius was dead now. Dead because of you. Oh, the Headmaster reassures you otherwise, and so does Hermione when she realizes that you're still affected, but you know the truth. It burns inside you, harsher than any acid. If it wasn't for you, Sirius would still be alive.

And so would Cedric. Of all your failures, those two haunt you the most. Your steps slow and you know you will be late to Transfiguration again, but you don't care. In fact, why even bother going? You won't understand what's going on. You haven't for the past three weeks and it is only the fact that Hermione reads over all your homework before you turn it in that has allowed you to escape failing it entirely. You can't concentrate at all. Sirius's face keeps appearing in your dreams.

So does Voldemort's and his mocking visage tells you everything you have failed at. It is quite an extensive list. If it wasn't for the fact that Uncle Vernon hates magic, he and Voldemort would get along quite well, you think, and you can't prevent the bitter laugh from escaping as you trudge into an out of the way loo and squint at your pale reflection in the grimy mirror.

You look like shit, but that's okay, because you feel like shit, too. You make your way to the last stall in the row, the one with the scuff marks worn clean in the dust because of how many times you've been in here before. It is your spot, although you'd never tell anyone else that. You pull out the razor blade, still gleaming, although a baleful rust-red spot marks the last time you used it.

One rolled-up sleeve and bit lip later, your arm is trickling blood from a handful of thin red lines. You mop it up with a handful of toilet paper, shame burning the back of your throat, the fat scarlet drops blooming against the white the only way you can cry. It hurts, but you like that it hurts. At least you can control this pain.

You slump back against the wall, arm wrapped in toilet paper, and wonder again why you're still alive. The Dursleys don't want you. Voldemort wants you dead. No one else really gives a damn about you. Dumbledore just wants you as his weapon in the war against evil, and your friends can't seem to see past the facade of the Boy Who Lived, too wrapped up in their own petty bickering most of the time to notice you are falling apart. It's nothing new, though, and you reluctantly straighten, flushing the blood-stained evidence and straightening your robes. You thank Merlin yet again that your school robes are black. They hide any evidence quite well.

Detention with Snape goes about as well as you expected. He sets you to writing an essay about the dangers of not paying attention, and when your eyes inevitably begin to wander around the classroom because let's face it, this is about as exciting as watching the dungeon walls molder, he slams a book down beside you and seems to get sadistic pleasure out of watching you jump. Or at least, that's what his yellow-stained smile suggests, and you debate precisely how suicidal it would be to ask if he ever brushes his teeth.

Only then he grabs your arm, to pull you up from your seat and direct you to another task, of skinning something unpleasant and foul-smelling, and unfortunately, it is the arm you cut earlier and you cannot hide the wince of pain. And Snape barks at you to roll up your sleeve, but you can't. The shame is too strong, and it feels like you might throw up all over your shoes. No one is supposed to know what you do to yourself, and especially not this man, the one who already despises you, but not nearly as much as you despise yourself.

So Snape rolls up your sleeve himself, and the fabric comes away with an unpleasant sticking sound. And then you can see them, and so can he. The proof of your failure, starkly evident in the raw, red lines. And your throat feels like it's shredded, and you bite your lip so hard it bleeds.

And you wait for Snape to say something, anything, but he doesn't. He just drops your arm like it's a flobberworm and stalks away, only to return with some sort of ointment and bandages, and he dabs the ointment onto your cuts, where it burns for a bit, but then fades pleasantly, releasing a sweet aroma like flowers. And he wraps your arm up and his fingers are deft and almost gentle.

You can't help but stare at him in utter, silent confusion, waiting for the harsh words to scald you, for the contempt to scour you raw. But it doesn't come.

But then Snape rolls up his own sleeve and you can see the faded white lines that slash across his forearm, and those dark eyes pin yours, conveying more understanding than words ever could.

He tells you to come by the next day at seven o'clock sharp, so he can check on your arm, and you nod, feeling dazed. Like this has all been a dream, and your hated Potions professor has not just shared a secret that has rocked your world more strongly than Voldemort ever has.

But it's not a dream, and he escorts you out, and there is no more contempt in those obsidian eyes, just a queer sort of reflection and understanding. And you bid him a quiet good night and hurry down the dank dungeon corridors toward your dorm.

And you realize...you actually look forward to seeing him tomorrow night.


End file.
